


anywhere but here

by notictus



Category: In Bruges (2008)
Genre: Author Also Hates Bruges, Canon-Typical Anti-Belgian Sentiments, Gen, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 15:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20294104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notictus/pseuds/notictus
Summary: Even the best assassins need a bit of downtime between jobs. This goes doubly for the bad ones.





	anywhere but here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).

> Written for the prompts _getting high and then eating late night fast food_ and _everything is better with pizza_. I know you didn't request _I wrote this while drunk_ or _I wrote this instead of sleeping_, but I did both of those things.

Ray ends up finding Ken in the last place he expected—the pub.

In all honesty, Ray wasn’t even looking for Ken. In a town like Bruges, there are only so many things you can do to pass the time; drinking is number one on that list, and any activity that’s _not_ drinking can only possibly be improved with alcohol. When it comes down to it, the only thing Ray was looking for was a nice tall glass of beer, but Ken doesn’t need to know that.

“Surprised to see you here,” Ray says by way of announcing his presence. “Would’ve thought you’d be off in a medieval cathedral, seeking out the blood of Christ or some other shite.”

“Actually I was thinking we would visit the Basilica of the Holy Blood tomorrow,” Ken says, and the only thing worse than that idea is the fact that he sounds completely serious about it. “It’s half off on Mondays,” he says brightly.

“Oooh, a church. Don’t have those in Ireland.” Ken opens his mouth to rebuke him, but Ray’s already moved onto a more worthy pursuit. “Pint of lager,” Ray says to the bartender and throws a tenner down on the bar.

“Een pintje?” is the confused reply.

Ray hesitates. He casts a sidelong glance at Ken. “A pint,” he says, emphasising the long _I_.

“Pintje,” the bartender repeats like a mentally-challenged parrot, and then—inexplicably—sticks up his little finger.

“The fuck?” Ray mutters under his breath. “Did he just flip me off? Is this how Belgians give you the finger?”

“How should I know?” Ken mutters.

“How should you know? You’ve had your nose buried in that _Lonely Planet_ book since we arrived. How do you _not_ know?”

Ken’s answering retort is cut off mid-sentence when the bartender serves Ray the smallest pint known to mankind. “Alstublieft!” the bartender says cheerfully, then swipes the cash off the bar.

“The hell is this?” Ray holds up his beer which, in addition to being half the size of a regular pint, is also about thirty percent head. “This is something my nanna would drink with her morning tea.”

“Should have ordered a Duvel,” Ken says, holding up his own (gay) beer. “Did you know that there’s a D engraved into the bottom of every Duvel glass which creates a continuous effervescence as the carbon dioxide rises to form the head?”

“Did you know that I’m about thirty seconds away from leaving you in this shithole for good, regardless of what Harry may or may not have to say about that?”

“The name Duvel comes from _duivel_ which is Flemish for devil,” Ken says, ignoring Ray rather pointedly.

“Flemish?” Ray says with some disgust. He takes a long sip of his beer, contemplating. “Isn’t that the nasty gunk you get in the back of your throat when you’re sick?”

Ken sighs heavily and sets down his drink. He looks completely and utterly defeated.

“Ray,” he says with a tired resignation. “What’s wrong?”

Ray raises his eyebrows, suddenly lost for words. “What’s wrong? What’s _wrong?_ Hold on a moment, let me find the list. What’s _wrong_ is that I’m stuck in this shithole. What’s wrong is that today I was nearly killed by some cunt on a bicycle, and when it happened he rang his little bell at me as if _I _was in the wrong. What’s wrong is that I’ve stepped in horseshit twice since we’ve arrived because this town is so fucking archaic it idealises non-automated vehicles as a legitimate form of transportation. What’s wrong,” he says, his voice growing steadily louder, “is that the pints in this town are so fucking tiny it’s almost as if they’re designed for midgets—oh no sorry, _dwarves_—and in spite of what your little book tells you, Belgian beer is absolute shite. What’s wrong—”

Ken makes a sound but Ray steamrolls him, his voice rising.

“What’s _wrong _is that I’m completely fucking starving because apparently, the fact that it’s Sunday means that grocery stores don’t need to bother opening, and I’ve not eaten since breakfast. What’s wrong is that I spent four thirty on a cup of coffee because this town is a fucking tourist trap. What’s wrong is—do you hear that?”

Ray pauses mid-rant, his eyes wide and manic. Distantly, there’s the sound of church bells ringing out through the town.

“Do you hear all that—all that racket? What’s _wrong_,” he continues, growing louder still, “is that Belgians are so fucking stupid that they need to ring a bell every fifteen minutes at all hours of the day, or else they won’t be able to grasp the concept of time. What’s wrong is that I’m stuck here, in fucking _Bruges,_ and above all, I’m stuck here with _you_.”

Ray breaks off, breathing hard. The pub has gone very quiet. Ken’s expression is carefully blank, but Ray’s not fooled. Ray half-expects Ken to slug him across the face, to up and leave him in this shitty pub in the middle of this shitty town, completely alone and with no chance of escape.

But he does none of those things. He just swirls his (gay) beer around his (gay) glass, and calmly downs the rest of it, a placid expression on his face. When finally speaks, it’s with a voice of forced calm.

“Do you fancy a smoke?”

*

They order pizza.

That’s what they order, at least. What they receive is only the vaguest approximation of what could be considered a pizza. The edges are burnt and dry while the centre is a sodden mess, and all the toppings are piled in the middle. Ray prods at it distrustfully.

“Apparently there are no Italians in Belgium,” Ray says, carefully rolling up a piece of soggy dough. “Because if there were, we wouldn’t be eating this shite. Christ, I never thought I’d ever miss Dominos.”

They’re sitting by the canal that runs along the back of the pub, their legs dangling over the edge, the pizza box wedged between them like a peace offering.

“Did you know that there are no KFCs in Belgium?” Ken asks. “If we wanted to order KFC, we’d have to go to France or the Netherlands.”

Ray stares at Ken for what he can only hope is a socially unacceptable length of time. “And why the fuck would I know that?”

Ken shoves half a piece of pizza in his mouth—completely unperturbed—and wisely chooses not to respond.

“Not being funny but I’d give my left nut for a pack of Tayto's right now,” says Ray.

“Mmmph,” says Ken around a mouthful of pizza. “Salt and vinegar.”

“Salt and vinegar? No way. Cheese and onion or nothing at all.”

Ken chooses to forgo further argument in favour of devouring the rest of his slice. Silence falls for the duration it takes Ken to chew and swallow. Finally he turns to Ray and says, “So what’s really bothering you then?”

Rays shifts. The night air feels suddenly chilly. He buries his hands in his pockets, knowing it makes him look guarded and not caring in the slightest. “Already told you,” he says, not meeting Ken’s eyes.

“Oh I heard what you said alright,” Ken says, fixing Ray with a long, hard stare. “But I don’t think you told me.”

Ray peers into the inky blackness at his feet. He’s suddenly struck by the urge to throw himself into the water, to plunge down into its depths and let it consume him. He shivers.

“How ‘bout that smoke?” Ray asks, not taking his eyes off the water.

Ken sighs, but he does reach into his coat pocket to pull out a slightly crumpled joint. Where he found weed in _Bruges_ of all fucking places is completely beyond Ray, but he doesn’t question it. He brings it to his lips and lights up, inhaling deeply. They both watch as the smoke rises before them, dispersing into the night air.

“So?” Ken asks after a great length. “Is this about… you know?”

Already Ray feels that familiar prickle behind his eyes. He takes a breath and his lungs seem to shudder with the effort, his whole upper body shaking. He reaches for the joint but Ken’s already taken it from him.

“I don’t—It’s not—”

“Ray,” Ken says softly, and there’s a compassion in his voice that makes Ray’s stomach roil.

“Look I don’t want to talk about it, okay? You and me, we’re not gonna have a little heart to heart about—about _it_, about the horrible shit we’ve done. Alright? So you can just”—Ray’s voice breaks—“you can just stop trying to make me talk about it, and you can take your sorry fucking face with your sad fucking eyes and shove them up your fat fucking arse.”

Ken looks stunned. Ray feels a wetness on his cheeks and realises that he’s crying. “I’m sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his coat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say you had a fat arse.”

“It’s okay,” Ken says evenly.

“No really,” Ray says, his voice thick with tears, “I mean it is fat but that doesn’t mean I should have said it, you know?”

Ken sighs. “It’s okay. Here,” Ken says, and passes Ray the joint.

Ray accepts it with shaking fingers. The flame’s almost out but he brings it back to life, taking a long, slow drag. As the smoke leaves his body, so does some of his anxiety, and he manages to shake off some of the _can’t breathe can’t breathe_ panic that had gripped him only moments earlier. The tension eases from his shoulders with every exhalation, and when he closes his eyes the image of the bloody and lifeless boy grows less sharp in his mind.

They sit in silence as they pass the joint between them, both of them peering into the depths of the canal.

It’s Ken who speaks first. “I checked the forecast for tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“Rain in London. That’s good news.”

Ray exhales, long and slow. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

Rain in London means he’ll be able to go home. It means he’ll be able to move on with his life, and—most importantly—it means he’ll be able to get the fuck out of Bruges.

But maybe—maybe Bruges isn’t the worst place.

Maybe it’s just the beer or the weed or the fact that his life can’t possibly get any worse, but in this moment, Bruges doesn’t seem so awful. Ray’s world feels softened around the edges, like a camera slightly out of focus. He looks out over the canal and sees the copper-hued light shimmer where it hits the water and thinks, _this isn’t so bad_. It’s a still night and the water is a perfect mirror of the houses that line the canal, giving the impression that they’re floating in the darkness. Beyond the houses is the belfry, the medieval tower standing huge and impressive against the skyline, all the intricate carvings casting shadows over the façade.

The night is completely silent, and it feels like he and Ken are the only two people left in the world. As he watches the smoke rise into the air, Ray thinks that maybe he finally gets what it is Ken that loves about this place. It’s the peace. It’s the tranquillity. It’s walking the cobblestone streets and looking up at the medieval buildings, and knowing that you’re gazing upon something that was created long before your birth, something that will continue to exist long after you’re gone. And for a brief moment in time, you’re a part of that. You’re a part of something bigger than yourself. And maybe, when it all comes down to it, that’s what it’s all about. Maybe happiness is just knowing your place in the world, and making peace with it.

But when Ray opens his mouth to tell Ken, the words don’t come.

“Fuck Bruges,” he says instead, and takes another drag.

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to the arrondissement of Bruges, the region of Flanders, Flemish people, and Belgium in general. All cultural descriptions are based on my own experiences—up to and including the sad, soggy pizza. If I never hear the word "pintje" again, it'll be too fucking soon.


End file.
